


A Very Ordinary Man

by Garonne



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Community: holmestice, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casefic. The disappearance of a lonely, middle-aged clerk prompts a fit of wordiness on Watson's part. Not that Holmes objects...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Ordinary Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mainecoon76](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mainecoon76).



> Many thanks to my wonderful beta, probablyquantum. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> One line comes almost directly from 'A Study in Scarlet'. And this is from 'The Adventure of Thor Bridge':
> 
> Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world.

While the winter months bring wind and sleet, muddy pavements and miserable grey skies, they are not without their own particular pleasures, one of these being awakening in a warm, soft bed, ensconced in blankets and insulated from the frosty air outside. By that time it had been some years since my return to civilian life, but I had never lost the feeling that that comfortable sensation was an indulgence to be savoured, and even more so when Holmes was curled up beside me. The bitterly cold Afghan winter seemed far away, and the world a kind and pleasant place.

It was with some reluctance, therefore, that I propped myself up in bed, still enveloped in the eiderdown, wondering foggily about the raised voice that had awoken me. Eventually I came to consciousness enough to realise that Holmes was no longer by my side but rather bellowing for hot water at the top of the stairs. The bedroom was lit by the gentle glow of the gas lamp, and I noted that no daylight came through the cracks around the shutters. Holmes had evidently already been up for some time, for he had picked up all the items of clothing we had left scattered about the previous evening, and laid them over the back of the chair. He himself reappeared at that point, wrapped in his dressing gown and carrying a jug of hot water.

"What time is it?" I asked, wondering vaguely why I felt as though some serious matter were weighing on my mind.

"Half past five." Holmes placed the jug on the washstand, and began to lay out his sponge and shaving things. "Come along, Watson, we must be in Clapham by half six."

I watched him strip the clothing off the upper half of his body and begin rapidly to wash. From where I lay I had a glorious view of the muscles of his back and shoulders as they moved under his pale skin with each pass of the sponge.

"I take it from this unexpected burst of energy that our trip to Clapham is related to a case?"

He turned his head briefly to nod at me. "I received a letter while you were out yesterday, in relation to a missing person. The case in itself does not seem particularly interesting, but there are one or two peculiarities about the client which captured my attention."

I was rather disappointed by the speed at which his bare skin was disappearing once more under layers of clothing, but the fire had gone out overnight and the room was admittedly chilly.

"You never mentioned it," I said, more for form than anything, since I was perfectly happy to accord Holmes the pleasure of indulging his masterful nature.

"You would have preferred a pleasant little chat about a missing, middle-aged clerk last night?" he said, raising his gaze from the buttoning of his shirt to shoot me an amused look. "I shall remember that the next time you come home and pin me to the wall."

Once dressed, he turned his attention to the next step. Only when everything had been prepared, sharpened and laid out precisely to his satisfaction on the shaving stand did he begin the daily ritual. I watched the blade glide down his cheek, carefully poised in his long thin fingers. I could have spent hours watching Holmes shave, or tune his violin, or even sharpen a pencil. Since the moment I first saw him, I had been fascinated by his controlled bearing and his precise and graceful movements, punctuated by swift, unexpected gestures.

In the years that followed, and in particular since our relationship took a new and mutually satisfactory turn, I had had the opportunity to watch Holmes in almost every situation I could wish, but I savoured every moment no less for that. I continued to observe him out of the corner of my eye as I swung my legs reluctantly out into the cold, my feet rapidly seeking the warmth of my slippers.

Suddenly I remembered why I had woken up feeling as though something were weighing on my mind. It arose from a peculiar remark Holmes had made the previous night, as we lay wrapped up in layers of blankets, only our heads and Holmes' cigarette-holding hand braving the cold. It was one of those comfortable, cosy moments I cherished, with Holmes stretched out beside me, tired out and relaxed for once, his eyes drooping closed. I was beginning to feel a little more wide awake again, however. The hour was not advanced, as we had retired to bed quite precipitately after my return home.

"I see you have a new cork-board," I said, looking with an indulgent eye at the collection of horrific faces which already adorned it.

"Mrs Hudson bought it at the market on Portobello Road," he answered. "It once hung on the wall of a betting shop, I believe, after having spent some years in a child's nursery – a boy's."

Intrigued, I propped myself up on my elbows and examined the board as well as I could from a distance. "Do tell me how you know. I cannot begin to guess."

To my surprise he did not answer immediately. After some moments' silence he said, "I'm not sure I should. You know a conjurer gets no credit when once he has explained his trick. If I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all."

On that note, he stabbed out his cigarette in one sharp movement and reached out to extinguish the light.

Not being nearly as obtuse as my tales may give reason to believe, I had some inkling of the root cause of this statement. I had long suspected Holmes of seeing this time of ours as a temporary spot of light in his solitary existence, liable to be ended at any moment by the appearance of a determined young lady who would sweep me away and with whose charms he would be unable to compete. I burned to correct every detail of this fallacy, from the notion that his great brain was the only alluring part of him, to the illusion that anyone could ever rival him in my eyes, but his horror of sentimentality held me back.

The sound of his razor clattering into the bowl brought me back to the present. I looked up and saw him towelling his face dry.

I rubbed sleep from my eyes. "You mentioned a letter?"

"In my waistcoat pocket."

I now remembered vaguely noting a rustling sound while I helped Holmes out of his clothing the previous evening, but I had not felt a pressing need to investigate it at the time, being otherwise occupied. In his pocket, I found an envelope containing two used twenty-pound notes folded around a scrap of paper, on which was printed in a rather illiterate hand:

 _Mr James Phillimore, (45 years of age, bachelor, clerk, 5' 7", of 47 Prince Regent Terrace, Clapham) has been missing since Thursday morning. Kindly address the results of your investigation into his whereabouts to A. Smith, Marylebone Post Office. Advance payment on fee attached._

The note was unsigned.

"That's all? This Mr Smith, if that is indeed his name, is a decidedly presumptuous fellow."

"I agree that his approach is rather unorthodox, and the case itself does not at first glance seem particularly interesting. However, the note contains one or two fascinating peculiarities."

I bent my head over the note once more, attempting to apply Holmes' method to discover the details he mentioned. As I turned my attention to the envelope, I felt cool, dry lips brush my forehead as Holmes passed the bed.

"We leave in fifteen minutes, Watson," he said over his shoulder as he left the room.

.. .. .. .. ..

 _My dear Holmes,_

 _Let me describe yourself to you. Your hair is a dark, wiry grey, your cheeks are even sallower than now, your aged skin tightly stretched across those cheekbones I have always so admired. Your great height is diminished somewhat by the stoop of old age, your cane now more a necessity than an accessory. As for myself, I am sorry to say I have not escaped an expansion of my girth, and my –_

Holmes' voice recalled me to the present, and I abandoned my mental composition and came back to myself. Instead of the man of my imagination, I saw my own dear companion opposite me in the train carriage, young and most decidedly straight of posture. "Ours is the next stop," he was saying, as he sprang to his feet.

It was still dark outside when we descended from the train at Clapham Common, but many people were already abroad in the crisp, cold winter air, milkmen and paperboys mingling with workers returning home from the night shift. The driver of a laundry cart directed us to the street we sought. It was long and quiet, its tall narrow houses exuding working-class respectability in their white lace curtains and well-scrubbed front steps.

We soon reached the house indicated in the letter, and when I saw the cardboard sign proclaiming a lack of vacancies in the window, I understood the reason for our arrival at this unearthly hour. "You already deduced it to be a boarding house."

"Given the size of the houses on this street and the salary and needs of the average bachelor clerk, yes," he said, lifting the door knocker. "We are timing our arrival to coincide with breakfast, when all the lodgers ought to be present."

A short, elderly lady opened the door to us, an apron around her waist and the smell of fried bacon wafting out the door behind her.

"If it's about a room, I'm afraid you're a little early. I mean to say, I may have a vacancy, but the previous gentleman did pay up until the end of the month, and so I don't really feel I can – "

Holmes assured her that such was not the case.

"And it would only be the one room, anyway," she said, paying no heed to him. "It's really only large enough for one person, I'm afraid." She glanced back behind her, whence a distinct burning smell now emanated. "Lucy!"

"It's not about a room, ma'am," Holmes repeated. "In fact, it is about the very gentleman you mention, Mr James Phillimore."

"Is it now?" The smell of burning grew stronger, and she cast another anxious glance behind her. "Perhaps you could step in and wait for a few moments, gentlemen, and I'll speak to you presently."

She led us down a dark, narrow hallway, and ushered us quickly through a door to one side before disappearing into the nearby kitchen, crying "Lucy! Where are you?"

We found ourselves in a small room entirely occupied by a large hardwood table, at which half a dozen men of all ages were eating bacon and eggs by gas-light. Everything in the room was aged and somewhat dilapidated, though painfully clean. The men looked up at us without much surprise, for it was clearly a house in which transient workers often came and went.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Holmes began. "We came here in search of a Mr Phillimore, though I understand he has been missing for some days."

The first to answer was a round-faced young gentleman straight from the mould of a clerk. "Yes, you're out of luck, I'm afraid. I don't believe anyone's seen him since we were leaving for work on Thursday morning." He waited for the others to look up from their breakfast and shake their heads before continuing, "He went back into the house to fetch his umbrella, saying it looked like rain, and we haven't seen hide nor hair of him since. It's a rum do, I must say."

"He's not given to such behaviour, I take it?"

"Indeed not, I've never met a man more set in his ways," another of the lodgers offered, an elderly gentleman. "I haven't known him to so much as go away to the seaside in the decade I've lived here. And in fact he's been here a great deal longer, I believe. Mrs Parks would tell you exactly."

The lady herself reappeared at that point, carrying a large pot of tea, and introductions were exchanged. She could add little to her lodgers' words, save that Mr Phillimore had paid his rent on time every month for the past twenty years, that he was quiet and clean in his ways, never tried to bring women home, never received any post, not even at Christmas and very rarely even came home late at night. She seemed quite taken aback that someone was now manifesting an interest in his affairs.

"Is something amiss? I do hope he hasn't met with an accident."

Holmes showed her the letter he had received, but she could shed no light on it. "Perhaps it's in connection with his work? I don't believe he had any other acquaintances in all of London."

"We shall certainly make enquiries there," said Holmes. "Perhaps you could provide us with the address?"

However, neither she nor any of her lodgers seemed to have the slightest knowledge of Phillimore's employers.

"He usually gets off the train at Charing Cross," the round-faced young man offered.

Fortunately a more useful suggestion had by now occurred to Mrs Parks. "The address may be marked on the references he provided when he first moved in. I'll look them out after breakfast, if you don't object to waiting."

"Perhaps we could have a look at his room in the meantime?" Holmes suggested.

The request gave her a moment's hesitation, but Holmes was easily able to charm her over it.

"After all, if he doesn't return soon I shall have to clear out his belongings anyway," she said as she led us up the stairs. "Not that he had many."

The room was small, and cheaply but adequately furnished. On the dresser lay a copy of the _London Illustrated News_ dated the day before the room's occupant had disappeared, some shaving equipment, and other nondescript items. In the wardrobe hung two identical black suits, good but worn, and the drawers were full of small clothes and other necessaries.

"This is not the room of a man who packed his suitcase before leaving," Holmes said thoughtfully, leafing through the newspaper.

He began to search methodically through the room, while I stood watch by the stairs. Within minutes he had gone over the entirety of the room's meagre furnishings.

"Besides the trivial facts that Phillimore was a neat and methodical man, that he was left-handed, although he wrote with his right, and that he recently had his hair cut, there is nothing of interest at all." He looked around the room, frowning. "A most unremarkable man."

The anonymity of the room aroused my imagination. "Do you suppose he may have been leading a double life? Perhaps he was in fact a government agent, or foreign spy, or some such thing, and thus lived in deliberately impersonal surroundings."

"It is more likely that he was simply a very ordinary man, and lived a drab and lonely life," Holmes said shortly.

Seeing my expression, he allowed his mouth to quirk in the smallest of humourless smiles. "Most people do, you know." His hand ghosted down my cheek in a caress warmer than his words, before he turned to the door. "I believe we have exhausted the possibilities of this room."

The lodgers had already left for work by the time we regained the ground floor. Mrs Parks appeared in the hallway with a yellowing sheet of paper in her hand, and Holmes noted the address from the letterhead. While he wrote, I caught a glimpse of a young girl in an over-large apron peeking at us around the kitchen door, presumably the aforementioned Lucy, who had let the breakfast burn. She vanished as soon as she saw I had noticed her. Holmes graciously thanked Mrs Parks once more, and we left for the station.

"What an unkind, comfortless place this great city can be," Holmes said, almost under his breath, as we stood waiting for our return train. "How many of its citizens do you think return each night to empty homes? And how many live among others, like this Phillimore, and yet may as well be quite alone for all the good it does them?"

I glanced at him uneasily. I was never sure how to respond to Holmes' bleaker moods, for my own outlook on life was quite different.

We stood together on the platform, among the crowds of city workers with newspapers and briefcases, as the sun began to rise. After a moment Holmes glanced up at the slowly lightening sky, and said thoughtfully:

"At any rate, it's true that it did look like rain on Thursday morning, when Phillimore returned for his umbrella."

.. .. .. .. ..

 _My dear Holmes,_

 _Your eyes are no longer what they once were, but I cannot regret the change, for the addition of eyeglasses to your face – on the occasions I can persuade you to wear them – is strangely alluring. And I love to watch your fingers twirl them round as you peer at the page of –_

My train of thought was interrupted by the jolting of the cab as it came to a halt. Holmes sprang down to the ground, the picture of youth and health, his keen eyes already taking in his surroundings as he paid the cab driver. I followed more slowly, wishing I had time to scribble a few sentences in my notebook.

"Well, here's a turn up for the books, Watson," Holmes announced, gesturing at the wrought-iron railings which separated us from a small public garden. "Number two hundred and twenty-seven appears not to exist."

He darted off first in one direction, then in the other, but soon returned to my side.

"Indeed, the final number is two hundred and twenty-five, and after that, the street name changes."

We stood frowning at the park which seemed to have replaced the building we sought. Beyond the railings, a governess called her charges to order as they bounded onto the grass to begin the day's games.

"I am quite sure those trees have been in place far longer than twenty years," I said thoughtfully.

"Indeed." Holmes took one last look around, and across the street, before being obliged to admit defeat. He took my arm, and we began to walk further down the pavement, looking for a cab. "Twenty years ago, therefore, a young man gave a false address on his references to his landlady. However, instead of leaving after two weeks with rent arrears, as one would expect from such a person, he went on living there quietly, paying his rent for the next twenty years, and each morning going regularly to work – somewhere!

"We cannot even say for certain that he is a clerk. For that, we have only the word of our mysterious client. I believe our next point of enquiry should be him. According to Mrs Parks, her erstwhile lodger never received so much as a card at Christmas. Who, then, suddenly misses Mr Phillimore? Who was sufficiently concerned about him to offer such a generous remuneration to have him traced?" We came to a stop at the corner of the street, and he looked at me with a frown. "In fact, I am inclined to think rather that our client wishes him ill, and not good."

"There is no need to assume that such munificence implies an ill will," I protested. "Why, I should pay a great deal more than forty pounds to have someone track you down and bring you back to me."

He gave me a sidelong glance. "And I you," he said quietly. "But pleasant as the thought is, my dear fellow, it is not of the slightest relevance to the current case."

When we found a cab, Holmes asked to be left at Marylebone Post Office, but I elected to continue on to Baker Street, to finally write the composition whose phrases I had been turning around in my head all morning. The task I had set myself turned out to be far more difficult than I had imagined, and I worked harder at it than I ever had on any of my stories. I paused only to eat a brief lunch with Holmes, who disappeared directly afterwards in the guise of a casual labourer.

That evening, after many hours and many discarded drafts, my concentration was broken by the sound of Holmes' footsteps on the stairs. I barely had time to slip my sheet of paper in among a pile of others before he appeared, dripping wet.

"I should not mind so much if it were snowing," he complained as he peeled off his outer layers, "but this cold sleet is a deuced hindrance to the outdoor kind of detective work."

I had already stoked up the fire as soon as I saw the state he was in, and now I drew our small sofa closer to the flames, and sat down. I knew from the flicker of Holmes’ gaze towards the empty place beside me as he crossed the room to his stock of tobacco on the mantelpiece that he understood my unspoken invitation to join him. He gave me the little tight-lipped smile, which on him could express every range of feeling from mild contentment to outright delight and which only I could decipher with any accuracy. This time it contained regret and a certain amount of amusement directed against himself.

"I must think, Watson, and I cannot do that with you less than two feet from me, not when you are looking at me with that particular expression in your eyes."

Thus saying, he curled up in his armchair, closed his eyes and proceeded to fall into a brown study, soon disappearing in clouds of pipe smoke.

Foiled, I cast around for another occupation. For a moment I debated resuming the work I had been engaged in before his arrival, but it did not seem quite safe. I could not always quite tell when Holmes was deep in thought and when he was in fact watching me covertly, as he seemed to adore doing. In the latter case, I should not have put it past him to discern, by some small sign that I should never even have thought to hide, that I was not working on my usual writing but on something quite different, and thus ruin the surprise. So I picked up my novel and tried to lose myself in the world of Sir Francis Drake's fleet.

Finally Holmes sat up, and waved away the clouds of smoke.

"Tomorrow afternoon we are returning to Clapham," he announced. "We shall call on Miss Lucy."

"Miss Lucy?" I repeated, mystified.

"Mrs Park's maid." Before I could question him any further, he had sprung to his feet and crossed the space between us in two swift steps.

He held out his hands to take mine. "Am I disturbing you, Watson?"

I laughed. "You know perfectly well you don't give a damn if you are," I said, allowing myself to be drawn to my feet.

His eyes gleamed with a light that only I ever saw. "My dear fellow, you wrong me!" His low voice was quite at odds with his words, and I decided to put a stop to any further nonsense by pulling him to me and kissing him firmly.

.. .. .. .. ..

The next morning I succeeded in concealing myself in my former bedroom in the attic long enough to finish the composition I had been writing the previous day, before we left once more for Clapham.

Holmes was in an excellent mood that morning, brimming over with that suppressed excitement he displayed only when hot on the scent of the resolution of a case, and which he betrayed by a host of subtle signs that I had slowly come to learn to detect. I was infected by the same contagious anticipation and hurried along beside him as he strode out of the station.

We soon reached the same street as we had been in the previous morning, but to my surprise, instead of approaching the front door of the boarding house, Holmes led me down a side street to join the network of lanes which ran along the back of the houses.

"We are tracing the steps of Phillimore's caller," he said in answer to my exclamation of surprise.

"He had a visitor?"

"But of course, Watson! Think the matter through! Here is a man who follows the same routine without deviation every morning. But on one occasion, when he chances to return into the house for his umbrella, he discovers something which causes him to depart from that routine. It was rather too early for the postman to have called, I might add, and a telegraph boy could not have come to the door without Mrs Parks and the men waiting outside the house being aware of it."

"So he had a visitor who came to the back of the house," I said.

"Precisely. I have been certain of that from the start. The only person who could possibly provide some more details on the fact, however, in the absence of Phillimore himself, is Lucy the maid."

A few more minutes' brisk walk brought us to the rear of the boarding house and across the backyard. Through the kitchen window we could see the young maid bent over a large sink filled with dirty dishes and saucepans. She gave a start when Holmes knocked on the window, but came across the room without fear to speak to us.

"You're the gentlemen who called yesterday," she said through the open window. "Don't you want to see Mrs Parks?"

"On the contrary," said Holmes. "We should prefer to keep this visit as secret as possible. After all, it is what Mr Phillimore would want, is it not?"

The girl seemed torn between pleasure at having a secret from Mrs Parks and doubt about our motivations. She screwed up her eyes in confusion, and it occurred to me that in fact she was little more than a child.

Holmes said gently, "We know that last Thursday morning around seven o'clock, someone came to the kitchen door asking for Mr Phillimore. It would be very helpful to us to know a little more about that person."

She gaped at us for a moment in amazement, then snapped her mouth shut and said firmly, "No, no one came."

Holmes said, "Dr Watson and I are not here to persecute Mr Phillimore, nor even to find him." This almost caused me to gape at him myself, although it occurred to me that that would not be particularly helpful in this situation, and I managed to retain myself in time. I could usually tell when he was lying, but he did not seem to be in this case. "We only wish to satisfy our curiosity. Besides, as I think you know, Mr Phillimore is a long way from England by now and quite out of the reach of anyone seeking him, isn't he?"

She gave a sudden quick nod of the head.

We waited expectantly.

"It was an old lady," she said finally, the words spilling out. "From what they said, she was the charwoman where he worked. She was all excited for some reason. She wanted Mr Phillimore to come away with her at once." She grinned suddenly. "Mr Phillimore wasn't half funny! He went red all over. I think he must have liked this lady for a long time."

"Could you perhaps describe her?"

"I don't know – just an old lady in an old coat. She didn't even have a suitcase with her, so I don't see how she could have been wanting to go away that very morning."

"Well spotted, miss!" Holmes exclaimed in delight, making her beam. "Though don't you think it was likely that, given her profession, she didn't even own a suitcase?"

"Well, that's the funny thing," she said excitedly. "Because from what I gathered, she was a charwoman, but she gave me five pounds!"

Scarcely had the words escaped her than she clapped her hands to her mouth, looking horrified.

"Never fear, miss," said Holmes. "That particular secret is safe with us. I trust you can keep this secret too," he added, passing her a sovereign. "You've been a great help to us."

He bowed to her and she smiled shyly, going a little red. I added my own thanks, doffing my hat to her and pleasing her immensely.

As soon as we were sitting in the train on the way back into the city, I confronted Holmes. "Did you really mean that, when you said we were no longer looking for Phillimore?"

"Indeed we are not. Not since I discovered our client's identity yesterday afternoon. However, by that time my curiosity had been aroused."

"And mine," I said fervently, sitting up straight, impatient to hear more.

Holmes gave me his most teasingly enigmatic smile. "Think, friend Watson. There are three mysteries – where did Phillimore work, who was the person who called on him morning of his disappearance, and who is the person who was interested enough in his whereabouts to offer me two twenty-pound notes for the information. It is not unreasonable to suggest that at least some of the three are connected."

"From Miss Lucy we already know that the visitor was an old lady," I said slowly, trying to see my way down the elegantly constructed path of deduction I knew he would begin to sketch out.

"The little girl called her old, but I think we can safely assume that she was middle-aged, like Phillimore. If she was indeed the charwoman at his place of work, that dovetails neatly with my theory."

"And what was his place of work?"

He leant back, smiling that tight-lipped smile. "Ah, Watson, there it is only fair that I should give you a hint, for I know something you do not. Billy was busy yesterday morning, keeping watch on Marylebone Post Office for whoever came to collect the rather distinctive large blue envelope I had left for Mr Smith. He followed the man all the way to Tower Hamlets, and came back to give me the address. Visiting the place myself that afternoon, I discovered it to be an opium den."

I gasped. "We've been working for the owner of an opium den!"

Holmes shook his head. "Never fear, Watson. I certainly do not intend that he should profit from the fruits of our work. In any case, I made some more enquiries yesterday – getting thoroughly soaked in the process, if you remember – and discovered our former client to be a man who owns a string of opium dens and other unsavoury establishments across the East End. In the guise of an unemployed man seeking casual handiwork, I was informed that I was out of luck, for the only person they were looking to employ at the moment was a woman to come in and clean each morning and evening."

"To replace the charwoman who called on Phillimore," I exclaimed.

"Of course. Which suggests that Phillimore also worked for the same man. I think we can safely assume that he was indeed a clerk of sorts, who kept the accounts for this man's little business empire in the East End."

I could not help but smile. "One does not think of underworld magnates employing clerks."

"And yet they do. Phillimore was indeed what he seemed, an unremarkable, blameless clerk, but who happened to work for a rather unsavoury master. It is perhaps not surprising there was a false address on his references."

I thought things over a while in my head before venturing, "And yet he cannot be so blameless after all, or his unsavoury employer would not be so keen to get hold of him."

"Think, Watson! Where did the charwoman suddenly get so much money?"

I frowned. "While I do not wish to slur the character of a lady I have never met, I should hazard a guess that she stole it."

"Exactly! Everything points to the idea that, through the carelessness of some other person, she somehow came across a large bundle of cash while cleaning. Seizing the opportunity, she went straight to Phillimore and proposed a new life somewhere in exchange for his help."

"I wish I had met her," I exclaimed. "She sounds like a woman a little out of the ordinary."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps. In any case, stealing from the owner of a string of places worse than opium dens is not a crime that inspires me to apply the firm hand of justice. I believe we shall simply wish Phillimore and his nameless friend the best of luck, and return the forty pounds to our erstwhile client."

I was still not quite satisfied with the explanation, and as we left the train at Euston, I said, "You mentioned some peculiarities about the letter you received."

"Ah yes, of course. Aside from the strange contrast between the poor handwriting and the expensive paper, which suggests wealth gained in an illicit manner, how many honest clients hide behind the use of poste restante? Most significantly, the letter was post-marked Bethany Green. In order to give the impression of living in the West End, as he seemed to wish to do with his choice of Marylebone Post Office, the writer would have done well to use a postbox in the appropriate area."

"And how did you know the girl Lucy to be aware of the whole affair?"

Holmes tutted impatiently. "Someone must have let the lady in at the kitchen door, Watson. She was fortunate that Phillimore had returned for his umbrella. Of such coincidences are life-changing events made." He drew the envelope I had seen before from his pocket. "Now we must stop by the post office to return this unclean money to our mysterious Mr Smith."

.. .. .. .. ..

"Where do you think they are now?" I asked as we lay together on the sofa that evening, my right arm about Holmes' narrow waist and the warmth of the fire surrounding us.

"Phillimore and his lady friend?" Holmes glanced at the calendar on the wall. "About a thousand miles out into the Atlantic Ocean, I hope." He stretched out his long limbs, before settling down more comfortably under my arm. "And thus ends the tale of the time I worked for an underworld magnate – one that is perhaps not entirely suitable for publication. Let us say rather that the disappearance of Mr James Phillimore remained forever a mystery."

"It is a shame," I said, "for it would make a wonderfully inspiring story. Phillimore may have spent his life working for a criminal, and he may have become an accomplice to the theft of criminal proceeds, but I cannot find it in my heart to condemn him. Why, he and the lady may have been engaging in genteel flirting for the past twenty years! Finally there came a stroke of luck and a flash of courage on her part and now they are sailing away to happiness and a new life together."

"Watson, you are speculating based on absolutely no known facts whatsoever," Holmes said severely.

"Nevertheless," I insisted, "to see a hard-working, humdrum existence transformed by luck and love is quite uplifting."

"That is the problem with your streak of romantic fancy. It is not at all representative of reality." He closed his eyes and laid his head in the crook of my arm, seeming to dismiss the matter from his mind already.

I looked down into his long, gaunt face, more dear to me than any other, and resisted a momentary urge to pick him up and shake him into a more optimistic mindset.

"Holmes, I wrote you a letter," I said instead.

He opened one lazy eye to look up at me. "A most peculiar thing to do, since you live with me."

"Wait here." I extricated myself from our entangled position, went to my writing desk, and drew from it the final copy of the composition I had been working on in secret for the previous two days. I pressed it into his hands and sat down in my armchair, busying myself with my pipe.

I had worked so carefully on the letter that I knew it by heart:

 _My dear Holmes,_

 _Let me describe yourself to you. Your hair is a dark, wiry grey, your cheeks are even sallower than in your youth, your aged skin stretched tightly across those cheekbones I have always so admired. Your great height is diminished somewhat by the stoop of old age, your cane now more a necessity than an accessory. As for myself, I am sorry to say I have not escaped an expansion of my girth, and my hair is a peculiar grimy sand-colour, although you assure me it looks distinguished._

 _We sit together, in this future time, in some warm and cosy sitting room, you reading by the fire while I watch. Your eyes are no longer what they once were, but I cannot regret the change, for the addition of eyeglasses to your face – on the occasions I can persuade you to wear them – is strangely alluring. And I love to watch your fingers twirl them round and round as you peer at the page without them. You have not lost that streak of vanity!_

 _I should like to say that the laws of England have changed, and that we now walk about together, openly hand in hand. However, as I am trying to paint to you a vision of our future as I truly believe it to be, perhaps I had better simply say that nothing has ever separated us, and we have weathered every storm._

 _I wrote just now of the inevitable changes time has wrought in our appearance. Perhaps I ought to add that this has in no way diminished the ardour of that certain segment of the clients you still occasionally accept, who continue to demonstrate their susceptibility to your charms in the most embarrassing way. Happily I have grown to be more sanguine about it and no longer desire to box the men's ears and throw the ladies down the stairs! As for the great brain of Sherlock Holmes, everyone knows it. I am privileged to be the one most often at the receiving end of its sharpness – no, no, my dear fellow, do not think I am being sarcastic! If I am, just a little, I believe that so many decades have surely earned me the right to do so!_

 _The brain and the body do not make the man, however. I love him for the heart, every glimpse of which I treasure, for I know its worth, and I could never find another like it._

 _Thus do we sit, many years hence, beside the fire. The years have not dulled my awe at your talents, nor my worship of your body, nor my intolerance of your foul pipe-smoke and fouler-smelling experiments._

 _Yours, now and always,  
John Watson_

I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he read. He had sat up quite straight as soon as he saw the first words, and he did not move, nor his expression change, until he reached the very last paragraph. Then a small smile crossed his face, and he looked up at me. My heart leapt to see a softness in his eyes which had never quite been present before.

His eyes returned to the letter. He sat very still for a long time, his gaze fixed on the page, and I knew that he was committing the words to memory.

Finally he carefully folded up the sheet of paper and dropped it into the fire. He came to kneel by my chair, his eyes on mine.

"Watson, you are an incorrigible romantic." He bent his head to kiss my hand. "And an incorrigible optimist." He kissed my other hand. "And once more, you are speculating in the absence of the slightest reliable piece of evidence. But I should like to think you add prophecy to your list of accomplishments."

I caught his chin and raised his head so that his gaze met mine. "You'll see. I shall remind you of this in triumph when we are seventy."

He laughed softly and came to sit with me in the armchair, folding his long form up in such a way that the number of bony elbows and knees sticking into my sides was minimised. We sat like that for a long time in comfortable silence, until the fire went out and we retired to bed.

.. .. .. .. ..


End file.
